Vainglory
by Bellicose Blue
Summary: Twelve snapshots of two lives, then one, then none.
1. one o'clock

**A/N:** There will be twelve teeny-tiny (150-400 words) drabbles in this series, all prewritten and based off sequential quotes from _The Hunger Games_.

* * *

 **It's technically against the rules to train tributes before they reach the Capitol but it happens every year. In District 12, we call them the Career Tributes, or just the Careers. And like as not, the winner will be one of them. - pg. 94**

* * *

They bring him a new training partner after he'd accidentally broken the last one's neck. _It wasn't my fault_ , he'd cried as he gaped down at his hands, his giant, strong, cruel hands. He doesn't even remember how it happened. One moment she was snarling insults in his hold and the next his vision was red and clear and she was sobbing on the ground. He'd visited her in the hospital, purposefully not looking at the machines keeping her alive, and she'd kicked him out with a shudder, with a scream.

He thinks this new girl knows his reputation; how could she not? She stares at him with her brown eyes wide, this tiny little girl with a round baby face and spindly legs and bones so fragile he could just _snap_ them without even trying, and he hunches his shoulders and tries to make himself look smaller because he knows, he knows what he looks like to strangers, to girls, he knows that he's too tall and too big and too _mean_ -

"He'll do," she announces, like she's granting him a favor with her approval. Sooty lashes flutter in a slow, bored blink; she looks for all the world like she's about to roll her eyes.

He blinks, not really sure if he should be feel more relief or outrage at her indifference, but he decides on outrage because anger is easier, _better_ \- "Shouldn't you be afraid of me, little girl?" he snaps, standing so close to her he can almost hear her heart beat calmly, steadily, _dangerously_.

The smile that spreads across her face is languid and chilling, challenging, _feral_ , and he takes an instinctive step back before he can catch himself. "No, I think you should be far more afraid of me."


	2. two o'clock

**A/N:** Still gone for a little while, but I couldn't resist uploading this.

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 **I've seen her throw in training. She never misses. And I'm her next target. - pg. 150**

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"You sure like to show off, don't you?" he smirks, leaning up against the wall and feigning nonchalance as he watches her throw knives so fast and hard they make the targets rattle with their impact. One lands a little off-kilter, the hilt just slightly _diagonal_ instead of being perfectly perpendicular to the ground, what a _tragedy_ , and she snarls with more disgust than he's _ever_ heard from her, even though she spits insults like normal people swap jokes and hasn't said a single nice word in the entire year and a half he's known her, and there's a bit of loathing on her face, which is strange because Clove is arrogant and confident and smug and she certainly doesn't hate herself, not with the way she's never lost a thing in her life, not hairpins or stray thoughts or fights, _never_.

She storms forward and rips the knife from the target, slashing through the fabric in her irritation and sneering as some sort of reddish filling oozes out. She moves to an unblemished target and repeats the exercise, this time perfectly, but she still doesn't seem satisfied. He leans back just a fraction away from the dangerous intensity in her eyes, the way she glares at the target like she's imagining a human face instead. Her voice is a spark of lightning, a brush of flame in the night, so charged it makes him shiver with fear and maybe a little bit of excitement as she finally answers him. "No, I just like to win."


	3. three o'clock

**A/N:** Yeah, I kind of love this project. I rewrote a drabble and a half, so now they're all ready to be uploaded whenever I can get to a computer.

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 **The strong band together to hunt down the weak then, when the tension becomes too great, begin to turn on one another. - pg. 159**

* * *

They're not friends. They _aren't_.

They're only training partners, giving each other tips disguised as insults, sparring for fun, swapping weapons for the day, testing their strength and lording each new victory over the other. They're only District partners, sharing stories about childhood adventures, introducing each other to their parents as _that annoying girl I was telling you about_ and _that meathead they made me train with_ , watching their home recede in the window of the silent train. They're only competitors, sizing up their opponents together, debating nuances of strategy well into the night, laughing at the way Glimmer drops her bow _again_ and Marvel picks through their food stores just for packets of dried fruit and Lover Boy whispers his girlfriend's name in his sleep. They're only enemies, grinning at each other over raised weapons, racing after their prey, dreaming of that icy crown settled atop their heads, hoping that the unthinkable happens and they can go home.

They're finite and limited and a means to an end, to the time when _CatoandClove_ becomes just _Cato_ and _Clove_. They're nothing else. They can't be.


	4. four o'clock

**Even so, look at their weapons. Look at their faces, grinning and snarling at me, a sure kill above them. - pg. 181**

* * *

He's decided that Clove looks a little like a wolf. It's the face, he thinks, already so narrow and angular, as harsh and rigid as the rest of her. Or maybe it's the way she circles beneath the tree their prey is trapped in, all restless energy, coiled and waiting to spring. Perhaps the knives she fans out between her fingers like claws, or the way she snarls threats to the girl and then flicks a glance back at him, like she's looking for approval. Maybe it's the eyes, dark and cold and cruel and so _wild_ he feels trapped beneath them, pinned as effectively as he would be with her blades buried in each limb. Or the smile, lips bared to show teeth teeth teeth, less of a grin and more of a warning, a _back off_ or maybe a _come a little closer if you dare_. Oh, yes, she's definitely a wolf, no doubt about it, and sooner or later she'll turn those fangs on him. The scariest part about it is he doesn't think he'll mind.


	5. five o'clock

**A/N:** Finally back from vacation! There's a poll on my profile about my next focus, if you haven't already seen it.

* * *

 **So that leaves Cato and the girl from District 2, who are now surely celebrating the new rule. - pg. 248**

* * *

This can't be real.

He knows it isn't. Their life isn't a fairy-tale, some pretty story where the prince slays the dragon and saves his princess and they all live happily ever after. If anything, they're the dragon, the wicked stepmother, the final monsters to be killed before the happy ending. This mercy isn't for them. But they'll take it anyway.

They aren't the heroes of this story. She's no princess, she's the evil queen, and he- he's gotten _darker_ with each day, his laughs a little sharper, his kills a little messier, his eyes a little _hungrier_ , and he's embraced the dried blood that sticks underneath his fingernails and behind his ears where he can't see it, but now he feels alive, he feels _free_. Clove turns to look at him, and for once she doesn't have any cruel words, any jabs at the weakness he knows is bare on his face, just lets her mouth slowly curve into a smile, and then it really doesn't matter whether it's real or not because when she looks at him like that, he's already dead.


	6. six o'clock

**A/N:** Finally got around to posting this, whoops! This is the quote that inspired this series and also probably my favorite of the bunch.

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 **They like to hunt at night. - pg. 263**

* * *

He's pretty sure he's ridiculous, but he loves the night. It's something about the way the wind rustles through the leaves like a pack of wolves howling, the way he can feel eyes on his back, on the weapons strapped to his chest and dangling in his hands, the way he can see _everything_ with those fancy night-vision goggles sent straight from the Capitol so clearly he doesn't even need the light of the moon. It's got nothing to do with the way Clove looks beneath the stars, half-wild, all tangled hair and frantic eyes and white teeth bared in a grin. It's got nothing to do with the strange, delirious happiness left unguarded on the slopes of her cheeks and the arch of her neck, the warmth of her body brushing against his as they race through the forest side by side, the tension crackling in the air that makes him want to lean over and kiss her because they both know damn well the cameras aren't watching. No, he loves being the danger in the shadows, the one that makes the other tributes jolt awake at the sound of a branch snapping because what if it's _him?_ What if _he's_ found them? He loves the thrill of fear that tingles down his spine as Clove slides behind him, knives glinting in the moonlight, but he knows she'll never kill him like that, unseeing and unable to fight back, because that's what she loves more than the night, more than him: she loves to watch her prey struggle in her hold, life seeping through her fingers, light draining from their eyes. She loves to kill. He loves _her_.


	7. seven o'clock

**A/N:** Yes, this is a single sentence. I'm so sorry. Figured I should post it today since I haven't updated this collection in a while!

* * *

 **There's still life in her now though, in the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the low moan escaping her lips. - pg. 287**

* * *

When Thresh throws her on the ground and bashes her head in with a rock once, twice, she's not thinking about pain or dying or even Cato as he kneels beside her and takes her hand in his, no, she's thinking about the miracle that is the human body and how amazingly _flawed_ it is, seriously, what better way to protect itself from dehydration than _vomiting_ and _passing out_ , such a _brilliant_ idea, completely sensible if you want to give that body any shot at survival, and why on earth are _fingers_ the first parts to freeze, like, how are you supposed to light a fire with your fingers _numb_ , that's just _asking_ for a miserable death, and fear is such a _great_ emotion, so handy to have when you _really_ need to run but you freeze up and scuttle on the ground in stunned silence rather than flipping to your feet or throwing one of your _dozens_ of knives or even just screaming for Cato, and she doesn't even believe in a God but she'd sure like to have strong words with whoever the hell decided that _literally everything_ about the human body was a good idea, although honestly, with the way her vision is blurring and blackening, it might not be too long until she gets to confront the Creator, and the idea makes her laugh and the laughter makes her head move and then she really is thinking about pain and dying and Cato because this is _real_ and everything fucking _hurts_ and then she isn't thinking anymore.


	8. eight o'clock

**A/N:** Have I told y'all that I love this collection? Because I love this collection. Even though I only remember to update it every other week or so.

* * *

 **Cato's voice is much nearer now. I can tell by the pain in it that he sees her on the ground. - pg. 288**

* * *

Clove is dying and he is silent. No, he is worse than silent, for words he cannot say are beating themselves against the edges of his skull, begging for release, but he can't say them he can't he _can't_ -

He can't lie to her. He can't tell her he loves her because love is a weakness and they're not weak and he can't tell her he'll remember her because the madness she'd always kept at bay is gnawing its way through his few happy memories and he can't tell her he'll avenge her because he might slit his own goddamned throat as soon as they take her body away. But he can tell her-

" _Fuck_ I'm so sorry _please_ Clove stay with me don't leave me I need you _God_ I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm _sorry-_ "

He should have just stayed silent.


	9. nine o'clock

**A/N:** I have too many favorites in this collection, and this is one of them.

* * *

 **Cato kneels beside Clove, spear in hand, begging her to stay with him. In a moment, he will realize it's futile, she can't be saved. - pg. 289**

* * *

It scares him to see Clove on the ground like a broken doll, limp and weak, because Clove is not soft: Clove is edges and angles and broken glass, Clove is the smell of charred ozone after a thunderstorm and split ribcages bleaching in the sun and the cloying sweetness of nightlock berries. Clove is a smirk three times her size, not a dented skull and tiny pained whimpers she's trying desperately to swallow, and _no_. He refuses to see her like this.

He raises her shoulders enough to slide his knees beneath them and lays her across his lap like an offering, like a sacrifice. She is larger than life; she should not be tiny in death. But she is. She is wrists so thin he could encircle both with one hand, brittle bones poking through her shirt with every shallow rise and fall of her chest, big dark eyelashes fluttering faintly to stay open. Clove is strained breaths and nails curled around his hand and fighting, falling, failing. Clove is silent and smiling as he screams so goddamn loud he can feel the Capitol shiver.

Cato is not easy smirks and petty cruelty and electricity flashing in his eyes, not anymore. They stole that away from him a long time ago. So they want to see monsters, do they? He'll show them a monster.


	10. ten o'clock

**A/N:** Me? Forget to upload the rest of this project? You must be mistaken.

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 **I wonder now if Cato might not be entirely sane. - pg. 324**

* * *

The commentators will be beside themselves now, tittering over the way he'd overpowered Thresh and ripped him to pieces, peeling his skin off and cracking open his ribs, popping his eyeballs with the hilt of his sword, carving out his tongue and watching him choke on it with eyes as cold and unyielding as the mountains. They'll be asking coy questions to his folks back in Two- had he always been such a _passionate_ boy, or was he just distraught over the loss of his partner? His mother will be thinking about the time she caught him breaking a squirrel's legs just to watch it squirm and tell them no, he'd always been a good boy. His favorite trainer will be remembering all of the fights where he went too far, grinding his opponent's face into the dirt and losing himself to the rhythm of the fight and answer no, he just knows how to put on a show. His mentor will be smiling at sponsors and reassuring them that no, he hasn't gone Games-mad, he's just releasing a bit of energy before the glory of the finale.

If they asked him, he'd say he's never felt more sane in his life.


	11. eleven o'clock

**A/N:** One more!

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 **And really, wasn't he always the one to kill? - pg. 327**

* * *

If _she_ wins, her people will sing in the streets and her mentor will get drunk off expensive wine and fruity Capitol drinks instead of the white liquor he consumes like it's fire and he's frozen inside, and if she doesn't, they'll shrug and say _oh well, she went farther than almost every single tribute from Twelve_ and that'll be enough for them. But _he_ , oh, if he comes home now with Clove's blood on his hands (and he didn't kill her, but he didn't save her, either, and that's almost as bad), the Victors will sneer at him and how _the one year they make an exception for you two to come home, you let an outlier kill her and you didn't even get him back until a few days later_ and the civilians will cheer the arrival of another year of glory and fortune but not him, never him, because Clove was a quarry-girl and she _belonged_ to them and they loved her for it but he's never been anything other than the Academy and he'll never apologize for it, _never_ , and if he dies, then they'll spit on the ground and say _what a damned shame that boy couldn't take down two lovesick weaklings to save his own hide_ and he'll only be remembered as the boy who couldn't bring them victory when they needed it.

 _There's no second place in the Games,_ the trainers liked to say, back when all you had to do to win was be the best, _there's only the last to die._ And that won't be him. He'd crack open the earth to save himself and damn the consequences. The only person he's ever cared about, the only one he ever loved, is dead, and now he's got nothing left to lose. _You wanted a monster for your fairy-tale, so you made one,_ he thinks, tightening his chokehold and smirking through the blood in his mouth as he watches the desperation slide like ice down the girl's face. _It's just too bad you forgot to give him a heart._


	12. midnight

**A/N:** Survived the hurricane and figured I'd post the final chapter. Thank you all for the ridiculous love on what is quite possibly my favorite project ever! I'm sorry to see it end, but thrilled to move on to new projects!

* * *

 **Then the raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where his mouth is. And I think the word he's trying to say is** ** _please_** **. - pg. 340**

* * *

 _pain darkness empty Clove please_

Maybe, if he were weaker, he'd feel remorse.

 _pain_

So many deaths. He's killed _so_ many people. Stale blood is smeared behind his ears and on the back of his neck and underneath his fingernails, but his ears are gnawed to a pulp and the tissue of his throat is exposed to the sky and his fingernails are long gone, swallowed by the mutts along with the rest of his hands. He can still feel their blood coating him, a phantom itch he can't scratch. He isn't sure he'd want to, if he could.

 _darkness_

He tries to muster up enough spite to hate the people he killed for being so weak, so unprepared, so unwilling to live that they just about fell on his sword and the only reason he's credited with their deaths is that he was holding the blade, but he can't. It's not weakness, of course. He just can't be bothered to think of them as anything more than lumps of meat, cobblestones lining the path to victory, that's all. It's not that his mind is on a constant loop of _pain darkness empty Clove please_ that drowns out everything else.

 _empty_

And it's not regret, it's not weakness _(pain)_ , it's not exhaustion that makes him beg for death _(darkness)_ , it's _not_. He's not so tired of seeing blood that he just wants to fall asleep and never wake up again. There's not a hollow _(empty)_ space at his side where Clove _(Clove)_ used to fit and now her mutt claws at his skin. He's just not an idiot, that's all, and he's fought all his life and he knows when he's not going to win and he knows when it's better to let himself lose _(please)_ and now is one of those times.

 _Clove_

And it's not mercy, it's not kindness, it's not pity that sends the arrow flying through his skull, because he is the enemy and even _she_ wouldn't feel sorry for someone who's only getting what he deserves; she's just being pragmatic, ending it all now instead of waiting for him to finish bleeding out because her lover is on death's door himself and she needs to win _now_ if she wants any chance of bringing them both home together. He understands. He almost doesn't hate her for it.

 _please_

He almost doesn't hate himself for everything else.

 _pain darkness empty Clove-_ "Please."


End file.
